Ill Poem by Thomas Ware

There's a fire inside of me,
Crying out for the knife,
Others and me die helplessly,
Living off, veins running with strife.

Dead bodies all around,
I don't know where or when or how,
These still corpses came to be lying on the ground,
But I know big papa would be proud.

Killing, slaying, dread,
Big papa talks to me inside my own head,
But I know he's real,
Has to be constantly fed,
With the guts and brains of a cerebral meal.

Swirling tumult,
Cannot stand still,
Fiery murder cult,
Only one member to kill,
If the police ever come to catch me,
So no one can know about this creeping ivy,
Tendrils crawling up mind,
Metamorphosing, grind, find the twisted side,
Infiltrate it,
Locating the most vulnerable of spots,
Finding out where the murder applications are,
Manipulating subtly,
The man never knows he is under fire,
For the DNA itself spells out this fate most dire,
Extrapolating from the proteins,
Unfolding, expanding, up and out until the seams,
Burst, leaking madness through,
Destroying everything in its path,
Corporeal meatspace too,
The chaos springs to action,
Spurring forth the limbs,
Actually adapting to eat and slaughter the hymns,
Sacrificing to big papa,
Because you know he's always watching,
Blaspheming against the light,
Converting it to sin...

Blood takes the role of Satan,
Cleverly anointing,
Bone forms the pentagram,
Into the void is pointing,
Big papa comes forth,
Frightens the insane host,
Seen by no one else.

Finally assuaged, the madness leaves the body.

The host with the curse of knowledge pierces,
Leaving flesh to rotting,
Sadly at 3AM the people come and stare,
At demonic runes writ in the moon's bleak glare,
Dead bodies all around,
Future as the past,
A startling scene has now been found,
Perpetrator, with the smoking gun,
Automatic to kill fast.